


Dance

by littlechivalry



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Dancing, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 01:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlechivalry/pseuds/littlechivalry
Summary: Dance is part of his training, but it has always meant more.





	Dance

 

There were some days where dancing was a chore, dancing was the Thing he had to do before he could skate. So he plie'd and pirouettte'd dutifully, counting down the seconds before he would be back on the ice in sets of 8.  
  
Then there were other days. Days when he woke up rested and happy, with a curious bubbling tightness in his chest. Maybe it was the music playing on the train, maybe it was a long forgotten dream from the night before, maybe it was the phases of the moon.  
  
On those days he would ask his teacher; politely, always politely; if she wouldn't mind letting him have some time. An hour, maybe?  
  
She agreed. She knew how it felt to have that moment, how rare and wild and beautiful it would be.  
  
She would unlock the cabinet with the stereo controls in it and leave, flipping the sign on the studio door to In Use.  
  
He started off slowly. It was difficult. Everything in him wanted to leap and spin and fly in the face of the mirrored wall.  
  
But he started slow.  
  
Stretches. Plies. Tendu, frappe, battement.  
  
Everything felt different on days like this. He could feel his muscles shifting and curving into the familiar shapes and it felt new and magical. His joints did what he asked. Ronde de jamb en l'air.  A series of pique pirouettes sharp and cutting, carving a thin line on the studio floor. He met his own gaze in the mirror and grinned at the fierce light in his eyes.  
  
A moment to stop, to breathe. To find the music again.  
  
Jumps next, each higher and lighter. Assemble. Tour jete. Pas de chat, just for fun  
  
Turns in the center of the room, fouettes on each leg, 10 on his right, then 10 on his left, then again.  
  
Ballet gave way to modern dance, languid motions drawn out of him by a shift in the music, feeling himself pulled across the floor, feeling the longing and the despair and the struggle and the triumph in every sharp movement of fingertips and toes.  
  
A shift in the beat led to something faster, more passionate. Latin and throbbing and pleading, sharp heel cracks against the floor and the flourish of arms first cajoling, now threatening.  
  
He stopped for water, nothing else. The sweat began to drop into his eyes and he tossed his head back, ran his forearm over his face, incorporated it into his movements. Exhaustion, fear, exultation.  He didn't look at the clock. He couldn't. There was no time in this place.  
  
The movement changed again and the comforting rhythm of a waltz reached into his core, pulled his spine straight, made him long for a partner he did not have. He danced with a dream just out of reach, let the sweeping gestures speak to his longing until the waltz became something earlier and lower.  
  
There was no pole in the studio but a few folding chairs did what he needed him to do. The invisible audience watching him even as he watched himself. There was no judgement there, only a wild freedom, confident movement and pure musicality.  
  
He dances until there was nothing left in him, let the music play on, a samba rhythm now, as he grabbed his nearly empty water bottle and the towel from his dance bag and collapsed into one of the chairs.  
  
He wanted to laugh. To laugh until he cried. But there was not air enough or energy in him for that. He breathed deeply, dried his face, his chest, his neck. He leaned back in the chair and let the cold of the metal sink into his back.  
  
Now, only now, he looked at the clock.  
  
Time came back to him and with it the growls of an empty stomach, the fatigue of overused muscles, the soreness of feet worked hard and the echo of a bruised hip.  
  
He pressed the towel against his face and breathed softly through the work fabric, smelling salt and detergent.  
  
It had been hours.  
  
He got up, leaving the water bottle and towel behind him and did a cool down. He felt the same bubbling again but it was gentler this time, softer. He had fed it and fed it well.  
  
Now he would go home, take a hot shower, maybe a bath of he could manage it. Some lotion for his aches, a lot of water, a good lunch.  
  
The rest of the day would be routine. Tomorrow he would be back in the studio, resenting the routine again.  
  
But someday, maybe weeks from now, he would be back in this moment.  
  
He could wait.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to music this morning and I super wanted to dance but I can't (I have to go to work) so I wrote this. Please forgive any errors in terminology but I'm not googling ballet terms at 6 am.


End file.
